But then so did he.
When he’d spoken of his impending marriage, he’d thought panic would be the main emotion flooding him, but instead a deep satisfaction had threaded its way down his spine.
Thrilling, rousing but dangerous nevertheless.
No more arguments from those sweet cherry lips. No more provoking insults or baiting words.
The hoyden would obey him and be his forever.
∞∞∞
Aideen hoped the duke didn’t expect her to obey his every word once they were married.
Some men, she had noted, became most dictatorial once in the parson’s mousetrap, and indeed Mrs McNally from Ballyduff had her pin money deducted if she queried her husband in public.
With thoughts akin to a lump of wet turf, Aideen lay like a corpse on the bed.
Earlier, Mr and Mrs Beckford, Cordelia and herself had enjoyed a genial dinner tocelebrateher marriage on the morrow, and although she had hoped Cordelia might join her for a late-night prittle-prattle, Mrs Beckford had sent them off to bed with a severe warning about wedding day wrinkles caused by lack of sleep.
But sleep was not forthcoming; instead, a hundred different notions assailed her and now she’d be a crinkled sultana for the ceremony.
Saints in their halos, tomorrow she’d become a duchess. Married to the pompous Duke of Rakecombe. His mother hadn’t even been to call, citing an unwell friend, but Aideen knew what that meant – she disapproved.
Not only that but there was the wedding night. She hardly knew the man and yet…
She would be naked.
He would be naked.
They would be naked.
Together.
Then again, she had heard some odd specifics about the English aristocracy and their nocturnal arrangements, so maybe not.
A soft knock on the door halted her musings, and she prayed it wasn’t Mrs Beckford with more botanical advice for tomorrow night. She pretended to sleep.
“Aideen?”
Recognising the voice, she flung herself from the bed and threw open the door. “Sophie!”
Hugs and tears were exchanged as she greeted her cousin with abandon. Cordelia stood behind, wielding a bottle of champagne in each hand.
Aideen dumped the last vestiges into her glass as her friends lounged about the bed in various states of inebriation.
“Has Mrs Beckford advised you about the wedding night?” asked Cordelia, scrunching her nose and chewing a ribbon. “I asked Mother, but she told me I shouldn’t worry about little things like that.”
Sophie snorted, spilling precious champagne.
“She did try,” replied Aideen, “but I told her I’d seen the kitchen maid and the footman in the stables when I was sixteen.”
“You told my mother that?” Sophie screeched, hands held to her cheeks.
“I had to. I couldn’t bear it. She had illustrations from Sowerby’s botany book.”
“I didn’t get any illustrations,” Sophie groused whilst Cordelia’s head twisted from side to side in tandem with the conversation, huge innocent blue eyes avid with curiosity.
“After your debacle, she probably felt it necessary.”
